A few people felt it was high time to air hidden truths. They wrote unusually wordy letters with talk of always and never. They felt one should bring truthfulness to life—at least at the very last minute. And hidden truths, these people believed, are the most truthful of all. Left untouched, they harden over the years and, being kept secret and confined to immobility, these truths grow bulkier with time. Even truth itself wants out in extremis. Anyone holding a secret truth risks an especially agonizing end, a lengthy tug-of-war with Death pulling on one side and the bloated, hidden truth on the other. A secret truth does not want to perish in hiding. Having spent its life buried, it wants to be released, even if only for a short time, either to spread its fetid stink and appall everyone, or to show that, exposed to the light of day, it isn’t so terrible or fearsome after all. Just before the supposed end, a hidden truth urgently wants a second opinion.

The only one who was happy about Selma’s dream was old Farmer Häubel, a man who had lived so long he was almost transparent. When his great-grandson told him about Selma’s dream, Farmer Häubel stood up from the breakfast table, nodded at his great-grandson, and climbed the stairs to his room in the attic. He lay down on his bed and watched the door like a birthday boy awoken early with excitement waiting impatiently for his parents to finally bring in the cake.

Farmer Häubel was sure that Death would be polite, just as he had been himself for his entire life. He was sure that Death would not wrench life away from him but would remove it gently. He pictured Death knocking softly, opening the door just a crack, and asking, “May I?” to which Farmer Häubel would naturally answer in the affirmative. “Of course,” Farmer Häubel would say, “please come in,” and Death would enter. He would stand next to Farmer Häubel’s bed and ask: “Is this a good time? If not, I can always come back later.” Farmer Häubel would sit up and say, “No, no, this is a very good time. Let’s not put it off, who knows when you’ll be able to arrange it again.” And Death would sit on the chair placed and ready for him at the head of the bed. He would apologize in advance for his cold hands, which Farmer Häubel knew would not bother him at all, and then Death would lay a hand on Farmer Häubel’s eyes.

That’s how Farmer Häubel imagined it. He stood up one more time because he’d forgotten to open the roof hatch so his soul could fly right out.

THE OPTICIAN’S LOVE